


born under a bad sign

by townshend



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: A Little Less Sixteen Candles A Little More "Touch Me" (Video), Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Brendon won't stop flirting I'm sorry I didn't mean for this, Joe is normal and he's just looking around at everyone like "why me", M/M, Paranormal, Psychic Abilities, Vampire Pete Wentz, main focus on Pete & Patrick but I'm going to tag other pairings as they come up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-04-02 06:44:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4050163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/townshend/pseuds/townshend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick Stumph can see ghosts. He thought that was the extent of his paranormal experience, but when he meets Pete Wentz on the roof of his apartment building, he soon learns that it's really just getting started.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for suicidal ideation in this chapter.

It was usually pretty easy to tell when someone was a ghost - there was something weirdly luminescent about them, or translucent, or both - just enough that you would realize "this isn't quite right". Patrick had seen them since he was a child - he thought they were imaginary friends at first, and it only took a few poor reactions from friends and relatives to realize he needed to keep them to himself. Once he got older, he went through a phase where he was sure he was crazy, but the particularly annoying spirit of a teacher at his old middle school convinced him to start looking up obituaries and Patrick eventually resigned himself to the fact that there was no way he could make up so much about someone on his own that would turn out to be true. He wasn't hallucinating _and_ psychic, either, which kind of limited his options to like... actually seeing actual ghosts.

It was sometimes incredibly unsettling. It wasn't like _Sixth Sense_ \- ghosts didn't look like their body after death, which he was grateful for. He'd watched enough Forensics Files to know that bodies weren't exactly pretty. Still, walking down a hotel hallway past quiet spirits or driving past lonely figures standing at the edge of the road, pretending he couldn't see them, was never fun.

And he did his best to pretend that he couldn't see them. Patrick wanted a life, beyond helping spirits with whatever weird unfinished business they thought they had - it wasn't as satisfying as it sounded and it was definitely twice as depressing as movies about it would make it seem. Real life just didn’t work like clichés. If ghosts knew he could see them, hear them, and talk to them, it would be really difficult for him to do much of anything _except_ those things.

Besides, he was still living at home, still navigating the waters of high school, his parents' expectations, and his crappy part-time job at a record store. Adding anything else to that mix sounded like a recipe for disaster.

He didn't go out of his way _not_ to help, but he didn't exactly list a personals ad in the ghost newspaper, either. (There wasn't actually a ghost newspaper. Although the idea of one kind of amused him.)

He was drifting in and out of sleep and mulling over that idea when he felt the sudden chill and prickle of his skin that would usually accompany a sighting - and sure enough, when Patrick rolled over and sat up in bed, there was the soft glow of a translucent form across his bedroom, reaching for his desk lamp. Just as Patrick was about to ask what the hell it was doing, the spirit's hand closed around the lamp and sent it flying across the room - it sailed through the air and hit the wall above Patrick’s bed, shattering. Patrick shouted, half in surprise, throwing his covers aside and jumping out of bed. He was so flabbergasted that he momentarily forgot he was only wearing boxers.

"Hey!" he cried. "Whoa!"

The ghost was undeterred, grasping his electronic tuner and chucking it towards him. Patrick barely side-stepped it, waving his arms to get the thing to stop. "Hey!" he yelled again. "That's my stuff!"

The ghost stopped, glancing at him over her shoulder. "Oh good," she said. "You're awake."

She was a younger girl, maybe his age or a year or two older. She sighed, putting hands on her hips. Patrick had never seen her before, and he just gaped, open-mouthed, surprised at the situation he was in.

He wasn't dreaming, right?

"Why are you waking me up? What possibly cannot wait until morning? Don't you have forever?"

It was rude (and later he'd feel like a total ass for it) but given she'd just woken him up, the ghost seemed to forgive him.

"Well, sorry, Mr. Psychic," she said, tilting her head. She was pretty good at this whole "giving attitude" thing. "I thought you might like to know that there’s someone on the roof. You know, about to jump off? Considering I'm the only one who saw him go up there and _you're_ the only one who can see _me_ , I didn't exactly have another option here."

"I'm not a—" But then Patrick’s gape become a little more panicked, and he suddenly rushed to pull on his t-shirt and jeans abandoned on his bedroom floor from earlier that night. Not even bothering with his shoes, Patrick slid out of the bedroom, thought for a moment that the ghost could be pranking him, and then decided it didn't matter - he at least had to _try_.

Sprinting up the stairs was not as easy as he'd hoped, but sure enough, when Patrick got to the top floor the roof access gate that had normally been chained shut was propped open and the chain had been discarded in pieces at the floor. Patrick jumped over it, didn't realize that the door had a step down onto the roof itself from the threshold, and between that and his rushed leap over the chain, he sharply twisted his ankle, tumbled, and landed on the roof with a shout and a loud thump.

After a moment's grogginess, he slowly started to pick himself up, first by skinned palms, raising his head and torso.

There was indeed a figure standing about twenty feet away. He'd turned, and he was staring at Patrick with a look of concerned bemusement. Patrick almost managed a smile - he wasn't too late after all. Good.

"Uhhh," he said - it came out sounding an awful lot like a groan. It probably was, partially. "Do you— come up here often?"

Sounded more like a pick-up line than anything helpful. Patrick felt incredibly awkward. Luckily, it didn't seem like the figure heard him - he hesitated, looked over his shoulder like he was considering just leaving Patrick where he was and taking the plunge, and finally seemed to give in, taking a few steps closer. He halted suddenly, almost as if he was _afraid_ of Patrick.

Patrick doubted very much that he looked threatening in any way.

"Are you okay?" he asked. He was close enough that Patrick could see his expression - a cocked eyebrow, a thin, slightly frowning mouth. He had his lip and eyebrow pierced, and he was wearing a hoodie and pants that were maybe a little too tight. "What are you— look, just fuck off, okay? This is my rooftop tonight."

"That's actually—" Patrick cleared his throat, pushed himself up a little more, to where he was sitting now. "What I came up here to talk to you about."

The man let out a puff of air from barely-parted lips, a sound that seemed like disbelief. "You're telling me that you saw me come up here?"

"No... not exactly," Patrick stumbled over his words, realizing this was going incredibly poorly. "Uh. I mean— I'm just— you're thinking of jumping, aren’t you?"

There was silence, then, heavy, and Patrick shifted, trying to come to a stand. His ankle screamed in pain at the barest hint of weight on it, and Patrick nearly toppled over again. The stranger made absolutely no move to help him or close the gap at all.

"Oh. Cute. You're here to talk me down, is that it?” He looked around. "Is there some kind of security camera?" And then, realizing, "Aren't you a little _young_ to be doing security?"

"I'm not security," Patrick said, quickly. He'd mostly found his balance at this point. "I just live here. I mean, I'm not— I'm not getting paid. I just actually care."

"Huh." The man shoved his hands in his pockets, watching Patrick carefully. "I have the right to die, you know."

"I'm not saying you don't," he said, quickly. "I'm not— I'm not going to talk to you about friends and family who would miss you, or say you're being selfish or talk about God or hell or— anything like that." He put up his hands, as if to demonstrate. "Promise."

The stranger let out a short laugh. "None of those would work on me. I already know I'm selfish, I don't have any family or friends, and I know that God and Hell don’t exist."

Patrick swallowed a little. The conviction with which he said those words kind of stung. Patrick wasn't sure if there was a God or not. He obviously knew that ghosts were real, which had to mean that a soul, in some capacity, was real - but the Bible didn't make it sound like ghosts were possible, so... it left what Patrick believed in in a kind of limbo.

He fumbled a little - he needed to find something to say to this guy, or he was going to get a really terrible view.

"So like—" Patrick swallowed a little. "Uh, okay. Maybe there's something out there that you're really good at, and you don't know because you've never tried it. Wouldn't it be great to discover that? Maybe someday you'll be on a road trip, from uh— from Chicago all the way to Los Angeles, and somewhere in the desert you'll look out the car window and see all the stars and realize, holy shit, you feel so alive, and you've never felt this way before. And maybe—"

The guy started laughing, and Patrick felt heat rise in his face in embarrassment. He frowned.

 _"What?"_ he asked, almost a demand.

"You are really bad at this," the stranger said. "I mean, that's not your fault. You just have no idea."

"Well—" Patrick crossed his arms over his chest, looking the part of a pouty child. "I made you laugh, didn’t I? Isn’t that better than before?"

The man stopped suddenly, almost as if he'd choked on it. He looked at Patrick, that same curious and confused expression on his face from before. "That's... true," he admitted. "I mean, I'm laughing _at_ you, but that's true. ...And kind of at myself, I guess."

"I don't mind if you laugh at me," Patrick said, sincerely. "Uh— so, okay, let's try again. You don't have to make a decision about all of this right now. Let's give it a deadline. Like— let's say if you don’t feel any better in two months, we'll meet back here and have this conversation again. Then you can decide. I mean, it's a pretty big decision—"

"You're assuming I haven't already thought this through," the man pointed out. "Two months isn't exactly a lot of time to get everything in order."

"Yeah..." Patrick shrugged. "But anything longer than that and you might not stick to it. You know?"

"Huh." The stranger seemed to be surveying Patrick for a moment, clearly deep in thought. "Two months isn't a very long time to me. Let's try a year instead. Think you can remember that?"

Patrick's face broke out into a smile. "Yeah!" he said, a little too enthusiastic. "Yeah. Definitely. So, uh...I guess I should introduce myself before making year-long promises. I'm Patrick, Patrick Stumph." He extended his hand, and the stranger stared at him for a moment, then waved his hand sort of dismissively. Patrick slowly lowered his, his smile faltering a little.

"Pete," he said.

"Pete," Patrick repeated. For some reason, Pete felt his skin prickle at the moment Patrick said his name - it was a weird sensation, one he wasn't sure he’d felt in... a long time. "Well, uh— can I walk you back to your apartment?"

Pete frowned. "I don't live here," he said, seriously.

The sky was beginning to brighten, here and there - on the edges of the city horizon, Patrick could see that the clouds were rapidly lightening, and he almost groaned at the realization that it was apparently a lot later than he thought it was. His mom would be awake pretty soon to get ready for work, and if she didn’t see Patrick in bed (if she checked on him - it was hit and miss these days) she was going to freak. Pete turned to see what Patrick was looking at and almost _hissed_ , suddenly yanking his hood up on his head. "You have a place, right?" he asked. "We can talk there or whatever." He didn’t actually want to talk at all, but he couldn’t stay _out_. How much time had he lost, standing on the edge of the roof, contemplating? He felt incredibly bitter at the fact that he hadn’t even managed to kill himself before someone had found him - and no wonder, considering how long he'd been gone - but a slow death by sunburn wasn't something he was at all interested in. 

"Uh," Patrick said. He didn't want to turn this guy out on the streets, but he couldn’t exactly bring a stranger back home at what was probably 5AM. "Yeah, let's— we’re going to have to sneak past my mom," he admitted, quickly. Pete's eyes got a little bigger in surprise.

"You really _are_ a kid," he said, and Patrick flushed again.

"I'm not," he insisted. "Just— come on—"

He tried to turn, stepped painfully on his bad ankle, and started to tumble again, and Patrick was sure he was hitting the pavement for a second time that night (morning) when he was suddenly caught. He blinked, surprised, and realized that _Pete_ was holding him up, one arm around him, supporting his weight. (Although the look on Pete's face was a mixture of horror and fear, and Patrick felt the sudden desire to shove Pete away that he couldn't afford to act on. Not if he wanted to spare his ankle any further misery.) Pete seemed to forcefully turn his head away, then said, almost a little too loudly, "Let's get you to the elevator, clumsy."

When they managed to get down to Patrick's floor and across the hallway, Patrick cracked the front door open, listened, and breathed a sigh of relief. It sounded like his mom was sleeping in that morning. He eased the door open quietly, limped in, and motioned for Pete to do the same, but Pete stood stubbornly outside, looking a little frustrated.

" _What are you doing?_ " Patrick hissed.

"Enjoying the weather," Pete said, crossing his arms. Patrick just stared at him. This guy was officially fucking weird.

"Get in here," he said, and Pete finally crossed the threshold. Patrick stepped as lightly as he could down the hall towards his bedroom door, opened it, and let Pete slide in past him before he stepped in, easing the door shut with a soft click.

With that done, he clicked the lock in place and breathed a sigh of relief.

Patrick's room was a mess. Dirty laundry was everywhere and he had a guitar in his desk chair, another against his closet door, his keyboard in the middle of the floor surrounded by scattered papers with notations (not music, exactly - Patrick didn’t know how to read it, and he'd made up his own bizarre way to write down the melodies he came up with that anyone else would be hard-pressed to comprehend), and his bass was propped between the desk and the window. Every single guitar stand was empty. Pete looked surprised, then immediately gravitated to the bass.

"You should keep this in the stand," he chided, taking it by the neck and turning - he went to sit in the desk chair, but realized there was a _guitar_ there, sighed, and leaned against the bed instead, balancing the instrument on his knee and strumming. It was in tune, and he nodded with appreciation. "What are you, some kind of one man band?"

"The drum kit's at my dad's," Patrick admitted, grinning a little. "Do you know how to play?"

"Kind of." Pete smiled too, just a little, and Patrick thought about jumping on it, pointing it out, but he decided to not push his luck.

"So, uh..." Patrick shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, hissed, and quickly reversed the movement. "After my mom leaves, we can— I'll make us breakfast if you want, and maybe you can tell me more about yourself. I mean, if you want."

"No breakfast," Pete said suddenly, very firmly. He stared at Patrick very seriously. He was realizing quickly that he was getting into some tough territory here - he was going to have to tell Patrick the truth soon if this kept up. Actually, he was going to have to anyway. How else could he explain that he wasn’t going to be able to leave the house before the sun went down, or that he was going to refuse pretty much all food - oh, unless Patrick happened to have any _blood_ in the fridge, because hey, he _was_ getting pretty hungry - although if he was honest with himself, he'd much rather have the warm blood that was going through Patrick's veins, and—

He clutched a hand to his forehead, tangling in the hair there. He had to stop letting himself fall into these negative thought loops. He _had_ to, or he'd end up back on that roof, hating himself, hating what he was, and he'd be lucky to do it before leaving this kid for dead for his mom to find with a bite mark on his neck that the cops would never be able to match to dental records. Patrick was standing in front of him, looking _worried_ , and Pete felt his stomach turn because this idiot kid was _worried_ about him like Pete hadn't just vividly imagined killing him, and—

"Hey," Patrick said, warily. He reached out, going to touch Pete's shoulder, and Pete recoiled quickly. Patrick snatched his hand back, not having actually made contact. "Sorry, sorry," he said, holding his hands up. "It's okay. Uh— do you, do you have anyone you can call? I know you said you didn’t have any friends or anything, but..."

Pete took a moment to calm down. He wasn't breathing heavy. His heart wasn't pounding in his chest. He couldn't do _either_ of those things - but he felt panicked all the same. After a moment, he swallowed, forcefully, and put the thought of Patrick's neck out of his head. Or did his best to, anyway. "There is someone," he admitted.

"Okay," Patrick said, encouraging. "Good. That's good."

Pete realized Patrick was waiting for Pete to actually _call_ him and he sighed, grabbed for the phone in his pocket, and flipped it open, scrolling down to Andy's number.

He was going to be so pissed off that Pete was calling him at 5:30 in the morning.

Patrick listened to Pete's side of the conversation with interest, although it didn’t sound like was going well. Pete had replied to the phone picking up with _"Andy?"_ so Patrick could assume the guy's name, but the rest of the conversation seemed to mostly be fighting.

"It's kind of a long story," Pete said. He winced at the reply, then nodded. "Yeah, I know— look, I don't _want_ to be calling you, someone is kind of making me. ... Haha, yeah, that's funny. Really funny. ... No, I don't need you to— okay, fine, maybe— In an hour or something though, there’s kind of... will you let me finish a fucking sentence or not?"

Somewhere in all of this talking, Patrick noticed that Pete's teeth were _incredibly_ sharp. Not all of them, just four specific ones. Was that a body mod? Had to be.

Pete sighed, rattled off the building address and Patrick's apartment number, and then seemed to freeze. "Well yeah, I'm with someone. No, they don't— Look, I said it's a long story. No, he doesn't— _No_ , why would I—" He pulled the phone away from his ear, jerked it like he wanted to throw it, then quickly put it back to his ear. "If you want to talk to him just come down here. I'm not going to do anything, okay?" Another pause, longer this time. Pete looked part relieved, part angry at whatever was being said. "Yeah," he said. He sounded defeated at that. "Yeah, that's... please. I need that. Okay. Yeah. Yeah. Bye, Andy."

He hung up, let out a breath, and slid the phone into his pocket.

Andy was coming. Andy was pissed, which was kind of rare (and he was only going to be more pissed when he found out what was happening), but he was coming, and that was a relief - because he was bringing _blood_.

When he pulled that out, it was going to be _impossible_ not to tell Patrick.

"Your mom's leaving soon, right?" Pete asked. Patrick nodded, then tilted his head as if to listen better out in the hallway. There _were_ sounds - Pete could hear them pretty clearly. Soft footsteps in the kitchen, running water. Patrick remembered the shattered lamp and went to pick up the pieces, and Pete turned to watch, the bass still balanced in his lap. It was a comfortable, familiar weight - like a buoy to cling to in a sea storm. Patrick bent, putting glass pieces in his hand.

"You're messy," Pete said, raising an eyebrow (the one with the piercing, Patrick noticed). Patrick sighed.

"I didn't do this," he said, defensively.

"Oh yeah? Who did?" Pete looked around the room. "Having rowdy parties?"

"I wish." Patrick struggled to think of a way to explain away the lamp. Both of his siblings were out of the house already, and he didn’t want Pete to think that his mom was some lamp-throwing rage machine. "Uh, just—" He sighed, and finally decided for the truth. "It was a ghost," he said, finally.

Pete let out a quiet, short laugh. "Okay," he said, finally. "Sure."

"I'm serious," Patrick said. He wasn't sure why, but he needed Pete to believe him. He'd never told anyone, and now he was starting to see why. "How do you think I knew you were on the roof?"

Good question, actually. Pete was starting to realize that his initial assumption of a security camera was pretty impossible. Patrick was just a normal kid. It looked like he’d been _sleeping_ two hours ago. Maybe he was like Andy?

"You're psychic?" he asked, sounding like he didn’t really believe it much himself. Patrick's shoulders slumped and he groaned.

" _No_ ," he said, like he'd been asked that question before. "That's totally different. And probably a lot more useful. Apparently there's already a ghost on the roof, and she saw you, and she came down here throwing my stuff to wake me up and make me go stop you."

Pete really wanted to laugh at him, but considering he was about an hour or less away from having to tell Patrick he was a vampire, he didn't really think he had much of a right.

"Huh," was all he said, instead. "Seriously. You can see ghosts. Like 'I see dead people'?"

"Whatever, forget it," Patrick said, quickly. "Just a joke."

Pete really didn’t think it _was_. He wondered if Andy would be able to tell for sure, though. It just seemed way, way too bizarre.

Patrick picked up the rest of the glass, dumped it into his desk trashcan, and a moment later, they heard the front door open, shut, and lock. Patrick couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief when it did.

"When's your friend coming?" he asked. Pete shrugged. Andy was in the city, so it probably wouldn't be long.

"Maybe an hour," he said. Patrick nodded.

"Well, uh... I mean, kind of awkward, but I really need to do laundry today or mom's going to kill me," he said, a little sheepishly. (Just what he needed - to reaffirm that he was a kid.) "Do you... uh, do you mind?"

Pete's lips quirked a little, but he waved his hand. "Go ahead," he said. "Put your instruments away while you're at it. Seriously."

Putting the laundry together and throwing a load in only took about ten minutes, and when Patrick came back into the room, Pete was strumming away at the bass (he _strummed_ it, close to the _neck_ , which Patrick thought was kind of weird) and Patrick sat down at the keyboard and turned on a simple pre-programmed beat that seemed to fit whatever Pete was doing. Pete looked surprised, but he went with it, and in a couple of minutes, they were having an actual _jam session_.

The time was going by so fast that by the time the doorbell rang, Patrick was certain that it had only been five minutes and Pete's friend was incredibly fast. Pete suddenly stopped playing, the bass going quiet under his fingers as he suddenly dampened the strings. When Patrick got to his feet and opened the door, the man standing there had long red hair, arms covered in tattoos, and was holding a cooler bag that he shoved in Patrick's arms. Patrick stumbled back (on his _ankle_ , uhg), grasped the bag, and watched as the man brushed past him.

"Andy," he said, suddenly. "You're Patrick. Nice to meet you. Pete's back here, right?" he moved towards Patrick's bedroom, and Patrick watched him go with confusion. Had he and Pete been texting or something? That had to be it. How could he know Patrick's name and where his room was otherwise?

Patrick closed the door, turned, and hobbled back to his bedroom.

He had the very distinct feeling that this was only the start to a very long, very weird day.


	2. Chapter 2

As it turned out, Patrick was only half-right. The day got a whole hell of a lot stranger, but at least the bizarreness didn't last very long.

"There's one thing I don't really understand about this situation," Andy said, and he was staring at Pete with a very serious expression on his face. Patrick had a moment where he was sure he'd made some grave kind of mistake - Andy looked tough, and maybe letting him in had been a bad idea. He didn't even know who Pete was, what was he doing sneaking people into the apartment without any idea where they had come from or who they were?

" _Why_ exactly were you on the roof?"

Pete sighed, abandoned Patrick's bass on his bed, and slid down to his feet, glancing towards Patrick as Patrick stepped into the bedroom to get a better view of the situation. He felt very much like the room was too small for the three of them and the growing tension between them. Patrick could feel it like a thick cloud, the kind that sometimes surrounded spirits in anguish at their condition. He swallowed, looking down at the floor, idly embarrassed at the untidy state of his bedroom now that two guests were standing in it.

"Would you believe me if I said I wanted to get a good view of the sunrise?" Pete asked. He was half-smiling, a smile that read to Patrick (who glanced up only briefly) as incredibly fake. Andy scoffed.

"No, obviously I wouldn't believe that."

"Do you even need to ask questions?" Pete asked. He crossed his arms, looking away. His glance away from Andy moved his eyes towards Patrick instead, and to the small cooler bag in Patrick's scuffed hands. He exhaled, then reached his hand out. Patrick blinked, looked down at the bag, looked at Andy (who shrugged), and then took a limping step forward to hand the bag off to Pete. Pete hugged it to his middle like a young child with a beloved stuffed toy. His expression shifted, his eyebrows creasing. "Look," he began, slowly. "Patrick. Uh. It's kind of hard for me to say I appreciate what you did today."

Patrick was biting back his bottom lip, and he nodded a little. "That's okay," he said. Pete _really_ hated how nice this guy was already. Couldn't he be just a little bit more of a dick? "I mean--" He glanced at Andy again, as if not sure what he could say in front of him, and Pete lifted a hand to wave it dismissively.

"Don't worry about Andy. He already knows what's going on. Fuck, he probably knows your favorite color and what your mom got you last year for your birthday by now."

Patrick blinked, confused, and looked at Andy, who looked suddenly a little sheepish himself.

It figured Pete would spill Andy's secret before working up the nerve to spill his own.

"I'm, uh, I can see things," Andy said, shrugging. "Actually, that's kind of misleading... I guess it's more like, I just know things. Not really telepathy, it's not that straight-forward. And I don't know _everything_ , it's just..." He trailed off, misinterpreting Patrick's stunned expression. "Guess you don't believe that, huh."

" _You're_ psychic?" Patrick asked. The inflection of those two words was definitely different from what Andy was used to - when people stressed the second word instead of the first, that made sense. Patrick lifted a hand to his head, fluffing through his hair and letting out a stream of breath. "Holy smokes. I didn't-- people always said _I_ was psychic! I was always telling people that psychics didn't even _exist_ \--"

Andy frowned. This kid was a weird one. He wasn't easy to read. No, that wasn't quite right - there was plenty of him Andy could read, plenty of surface information he could skim - Patrick's hobbies and dreams and hopes, the name of a girl at school he thought was pretty, a still-lingering resentment he tried to push away over his parents' divorce, a low-humming feeling of stress over what his last couple hours had comprised of. But Andy could also tell there was something deeper there that Patrick was purposefully concealing. Weird.

"Sorry," Patrick said suddenly. "Sorry, sorry." He lifted his hands up in a sort of "don't shoot" gesture - Andy noticed the scrapes on his palms and the scabs already forming, and the way Pete's eyes focused on the drying blood there and his fingers gripped harder into the cloth sides of the cooler bag. Patrick didn't notice at all, just kept talking. "I know this isn't about me, it's about--"

" _Pete,_ " Andy said, firmly - it was meant to grab Pete's attention, but it served as a sort of unwitting ending to Patrick's sentence, too. Pete's eyes focused, darted to Andy, and he swallowed.

"Sorry," he said, shrugging. "I didn't bring anything for show and tell." Looking back at Patrick, Pete did his best to keep eyes on his face and look relaxed and casual. "Where's the bathroom?"

Patrick indicated a door to the left of his bed, cracked open, and Pete slipped in, cooler bag in hand, and nudged the door shut with his foot.

Andy watched him go with a grim line across his face.

"Idiot," he muttered. "I should probably get out of here. I have a list a mile long of shit I have to do today." He really wanted to hit the gym in that half-lull between the pre-work 9-to-5er's and the "I just dropped my two kids off at elementary school" rush. Patrick looked surprised, nodded, and Andy lingered for an awkward moment longer.

"Maybe I should give you my number in case Pete does anything stupid." He held out his hand, and after a moment Patrick realized he was asking for Patrick's phone so he could program it in. Patrick went for it, still on his nightstand, and pulled it from its charger, handing it to Andy. After a moment, Andy gave it back. "I'd take him with me, but..." Andy hesitated, then shrugged. Pete might have been cavalier about spilling Andy's weird secret, but Andy wasn't going to do that to him. "The weatherman said sunny skies today," he finished, lamely.

To Patrick, it felt like some kind of weird vague riddle. He stared after Andy as he showed himself the door, then slowly turned his gaze back towards the still-shut bathroom door. It was quiet in his room, and he finally decided he should probably check on his laundry.

 

 

Hand shaking, Pete wiped his mouth with the edge of his hoodie sleeve pulled over his knuckles. The blood bag had been completely drained, and quivered in his other hand, partially crumpled. He stuffed it back into the cooler bag, zipped it closed, and shoved it forcefully away from him across the bathroom counter. It wobbled and fell on its side to the bathroom floor, and Pete kicked it under the counter, a feeling of disgust spreading through his body, seeming to blossom from his stomach. For a moment, he thought he'd immediately throw it all up, but his stomach and throat clenched together and wouldn't let anything come up.

As if in deliberate betrayal, the first thought that ran through Pete's mind was, _I'd feel a lot better if I could just top this off with something a little more fresh. It would be easy. No one's even here._

Pete gripped a hand in his hair, whimpered, and wished he'd jumped. His chest was heaving and he felt cripplingly out of breath. (Pete didn't even _need_ to breathe, but he was learning that some responses were more psychological than physically necessary.)

He didn't hear voices in the next room. He wondered if Andy had left. Pete opened the door, but Patrick's bedroom was empty. There were noises coming from the room beyond, and Pete followed them, wandering out of Patrick's bedroom, down the hall, and out into a wide open space that served as the living room opening into the kitchen and a small area for a round kitchen table. He hissed - there were wide glass windows and glass doors that led to a small balcony, facing east into the rising sun.

Patrick was in the kitchen, and he looked busy. Pete watched for a moment from the hall, not wanting to step too far into the living room. The TV was on, playing the morning news. Pete was struck by how _weird_ Patrick was - making breakfast, doing his laundry, and watching the news early in the morning on a summer day? He seemed more like he was 30, not 18. Pete grinned a little. When _he_ was 18, he'd spent his summer--

But Pete's grin faltered a little, realizing he couldn't even finish that sentence. His brain fogged whenever he tried to think back to anything before just a year ago. He'd woken up from a "mugging", dazed and confused with no idea of who he was or what had happened to him. He panicked, called the first number in his phone, and was connected to Andy.

What a fucking year it had been. Pete swallowed and pushed the thoughts away. Those memories were the last things he wanted to think about right now. He was already on a downward spiral, there was no need to accelerate.

With a heavy sigh, Pete stepped into the living room, trying to ignore the faint pricking of sunlight over his exposed skin - fingers, face, the back of his neck and a small section of exposed chest where his shirt collar hung a little lower than normal. For now, it felt like hundreds of tiny pins poking faintly into his skin, but it was manageable. Almost something he could ignore. The longer he stood in it, the worse it would get. He crossed the room, headed towards the windows, and yanked on a cord the brought down a set of bamboo blinds, continuing for each window he passed. The room was considerably darker, now, and the noises in the kitchen had ceased, leaving the cool living room quiet except for the hum of a clothes washer spinning in the adjoining laundry room and the voice of the news announcer on low, talking about an expansion at the Chicago Zoo.

"Hey," Patrick said. He sounded a little wary. Pete couldn’t blame him - what a weird situation this was. "You hungry?"

Pete almost laughed. He tried to reach back into the back of his mind and stifle the voice in his head before it could even _suggest_ what he knew it wanted to. "Are you making breakfast for me?" he asked, redirecting quickly. "You must be really nice to wake up to after a one-night stand."

Patrick flushed and Pete’s mind pounded at the sight of blood coloring his skin, but he did his best to ignore it. Did that really need to be in the forefront of his mind every minute of every day? _The front of my mind and the back of my head, all my thoughts stuck on the curve of your neck._ Not bad. Pete filed those lines away to play with later.

"Uh, there's eggs, and I made bacon," Patrick said, a little too loudly, and suddenly turned to the fridge. "We have juice, and I think toaster streudels or something."

"I'm good," Pete said. Patrick pulled out the jug of orange juice, opened it, and drank from the jug. He already had a plate loaded with two eggs, bacon, and a piece of toast. The smell of the food didn't bother Pete, which was lucky, but he knew eating it would make him sick and the taste of anything that wasn’t blood now tasted muted and bland. Not awful, but like everything was missing an important ingredient that was currently pulsing through Patrick's veins. Pete thought about thick waves of chocolate syrup washing down the drain of Norman Bates' motel shower and sighed.

"We should talk," Pete said finally. Patrick had moved his plate and fork to the kitchen table and taken a seat, and he looked up as Pete said this, raising an eyebrow. Pete could only imagine what Patrick was thinking right now. Andy's thing was a whole lot more useful (and with less drawbacks) than Pete's. Pete wasn’t sure he envied it, though.

"Okay," Patrick said, and that wary tone was back in his voice. Pete felt awkward standing, and he pulled the chair across from Patrick out, sat down, and stared across the table.

"Do you think I could stay here a little longer?" he asked. This surprised him, because it wasn't what he was intending to say at all. Patrick didn't seem particularly surprised by the request - his face was passive, listening. He clearly expected Pete to say more. "I'm still a little-- if I want to keep this one-year promise I made, I'm gonna need to stay somewhere safe. By the time the sun goes down, my roommates will be back home, so I can get over there. I just--"

"Sure." Patrick smiled a little, and Pete's shoulders relaxed. "I don't have anything planned today."

Patrick ate breakfast, went to check on his laundry, and dragged the basket now bursting with clean clothes back to his room to start putting them in his closet and dresser. Pete followed, grabbing Patrick's bass and sitting back on the bed with it, messing around with the strings and tuning and plucking out nothing in particular. They talked a little as Patrick worked - about Chicago, music, and Pete's band, which Patrick was incredibly interested in. The hours passed quickly between talking, music, and the videogames Pete found hooked up to the living room TV. Patrick's mom got home around 5:00 and Pete was surprised it was already that late - in two more hours the sky would be darkening and he could get home.

"Hey mom," Patrick said, leaning back against the couch to watch her come in, slipping out of shoes and setting her purse on a small table. She greeted Patrick without looking up, then stopped half-way through walking towards the kitchen, having noticed another person on her couch.

"Hi," she said, a little awkwardly, and Pete quickly got to his feet. He wasn't sure how old he was, exactly, but he knew he was too old to be hanging out at parent's houses and greeting them on their arrival home. Patrick realized what was going on and sprang to his feet, too.

"Oh, uh, mom, this is Pete," he said. She looked surprised, but pleased.

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Stumph," Pete said. He offered her his hand. She didn't bother correcting him on her name, and took his hand, surprised that he was so cold.

"Are you staying for dinner?" she asked, dropping Pete's hand and moving back towards the kitchen. Pete looked surprised. Patrick had already looked suspicious when Pete had refused lunch.

"No, no, I should probably head home soon actually," he said, casting a glance outside. It was still bright as hell but he was running out of excuses to stick around. It was one thing when Patrick casually made himself a grilled cheese five hours ago - a full meal with someone's mom would be more awkward to skip out on but still stick around.

"You're leaving?" Patrick asked, abandoning his controller on the couch.

"Yeah, uh, I should probably get home," Pete said. "Uh, I'll come back around sometime."

"Sure," Patrick said.

Within five minutes, Pete was out of Patrick's apartment and standing in the building hallway. He yanked the hood up on his hoodie again, let out a breath, and started down the stairs.

It was going to be a long walk home. He'd stick to the shadows as much as he could, but it wasn't going to help as much as he'd like.

 

 

Pete's roommate was a guy named Rick who was never home - he worked for a non-profit and organized all kinds of events all over the country, and Pete sometimes wondered why the guy even bothered paying his rent but he wasn't going to complain. He couldn't afford a place in the city alone and sometimes he even wondered if they needed a third guy around.

The place was small. It made Patrick's apartment look like a mansion. Pete went straight to his bedroom, pulling off his hoodie and then tank top as he went.

He was _exhausted_. He'd gotten used to sleeping during the day, and having to stay awake all day had taken a toll on him. He collapsed into his bed, pulled the covers around him, and almost instantly dropped into sleep. His whole sleep schedule was going to be fucked to hell now.

Pete only got three and a half hours of sleep - his phone ringing woke him at 9:03 PM, and he rolled over and yanked it open, holding it to his ear.

"Hello?" he groaned. "This better be good."

"Figured you'd be awake by now," the voice on the other end of the line said. Pete sighed, recognizing it quickly. It was Joe. "I mean, it is night and all that shit."

"I barely got any sleep, man," Pete exhaled. "Come on. Let a guy wreck his biologically-induced sleep schedule for once."

"No can do." Joe sounded bored. "Gotta check in on you."

"Why don't we just move in," Pete grumbled. Joe wasn't exactly over 18 yet, but Pete didn't think his parents would care. "Since you're my keeper or whatever."

"Look, you're lucky I don't blow your head off," Joe said. He was joking, and Pete could tell, but it still put him a little on edge.

"Speaking of, don't you have shotguns to polish or something?" Pete asked. He stretched, considered getting out of bed, and decided he didn't have the drive to do that. He hoped another depressive episode wasn't coming on full force... but considering 20 hours ago he'd been breaking open a roof access door, he probably should know better.

"Funny. I cleaned my guns last week, they're fine."

Joe was a hunter - and that meant he was he kind of guy who made sure that Pete didn't exist anymore. They'd met over _music_ , but Joe had known what Pete was almost instantly and Pete had been lucky to convince him that he wasn't going to hurt anyone, and was more interested in finding the one who'd turned him. As it turned out, Joe was after the guy too, and they'd been able to share (scant bits of) information. 

The awesome music they were making on the side was a nice bonus.

Leads had been pretty few and far between lately, though. Joe seemed to have taken keeping an eye on Pete as a side-project, and Pete didn't care enough to protest it too loudly. Maybe having someone accountable for him would actually be helpful.

(He thought of the curve of Patrick's neck again and sighed.)

"You talk to that drummer friend of yours about the group again?" Joe asked.

"Yeah, I don't know, I don't think he's into it," Pete said. Andy had his own music on his hands, he seemed uninterested whenever Pete tried to talk to him about what he was doing with Joe. "I'll work him over a little more."

"Yeah, sure. Call you Friday night about plans?"

"Sounds good." Pete hung up without saying goodbye, tossing his phone across the room and into a full laundry basket.

He rolled over, stared at the wall for a while, and eventually fell back asleep.

 

 

Across the city, Patrick was in his bathroom, stripping out of his clothes, turning the shower spray on and waiting for the water to heat up a little more before stepping in. He ran a hand through his hair, a little tired, his mind on a new song that was half-formed in his head.

He glanced across the bathroom, caught his reflection in the mirror, and quickly looked away - and his eyes rested on the cooler bag Pete had kicked under his bathroom counter hours earlier.

"He forgot this," Patrick muttered to himself, and bent, retrieving it. This was weird anyway, wasn't it? Did he need to refrigerate whatever was in here? It didn't feel cool on the outside at all.

Curiosity got the best of him and Patrick zipped the bag open.

Inside of the bag was a clear plastic bag used to hold blood for transfusions, the kind that would hang from an IV stand. Patrick stared at it in confusion and a small twinge of nausea started in his stomach.

The bag was crumpled and most of the blood was gone. Some still coated the edges of the bag. It had been ripped open, and a few drops were on the white plastic inside of the cooler bag.

Patrick slowly set it on his counter, just staring down at it.

What the hell was going on?


	3. Chapter 3

Joe Trohman met Patrick Stumph completely on accident two days later at a bookstore. Patrick liked bookstores - unlike libraries, there were almost never any dead people in them. He was standing in the music section, browsing, and Joe was there, talking with someone else. It was a stupid conversation, and Joe was completely wrong, and Patrick butted in, corrected him, and the two ended up arguing until Patrick realized he was going to be late for dinner and his mom was going to be pissed.

"You're an idiot, but you know your stuff," Joe said, smiling a little. "Hey- you play?"

"A little," Patrick said.

They exchanged phone numbers, and Joe made Patrick promise to come to a gig he was doing with some local band. Patrick noted it down - but really, he didn't expect it to go anywhere. It would be nice to see more of the local scene, though.

He was running late that Friday, thanks to a bus mishap and a chore that took too long to finish. He was almost worried he'd miss the band entirely. The venue was small and cramped, and they'd put a big black X on Patrick's hand with a sharpie at the door. Patrick didn't want to drink anyway. He tried to get in through the crowd, get closer to the stage, but it wasn't easy, and he was sure he'd get trampled.

Loud was an understatement, and the area around the front of the stage was curiously clear - but Patrick soon realized it was that way to provide a place for people to throw themselves around and mosh, violently. Only a few people were actually using it for that purpose, everyone else seemed to be on the edge of the bubble. Patrick had managed to squeeze through enough that he was right there too, enough to get his foot stomped on, hard.

He winced, cursed, felt tears in his eyes from the pain, but tried to ignore it. It was a necessary evil of going to punk shows.

The music was... well, it was. There was definitely a level of technical skill, and Patrick had a certain appreciation for punk, but he gravitated towards things that were a little more melodic most of the time. But raw music was important to him - he liked the unfinished edges of a live show over the polished sheen of a record a lot of the time.

He looked up towards the stage, scanning it, trying to see if Joe was up there, or if this was a different act. The person he noticed first was a thin guy in a hoodie screaming into the microphone.

It was Pete.

Patrick gaped at him, almost certain he was seeing things. That strange day was still on his mind - he'd spent a lot of late nights with thoughts swimming through his head, trying to understand or justify the crumpled up blood transfusion bag he'd found in his bathroom, weighing the options of calling Andy's stored number in his phone. But what would he ask? He didn't even know the guy, and he was the one who'd brought it, so whatever it was, he was already aware of it.

But the longer Patrick watched, the more clear it became that it really was Pete on that stage. There were people around Patrick who were screaming along with the song - people _knew them_ , knew the words. He was in so much shock that he didn't realize Joe was at Pete's side, a bass in his hands, until several minutes had passed.

After the show, as the sets were switching for someone new to take the stage, Patrick pushed his way outside to meet Joe around a back door. The door was propped open, and people were loading and unloading gear. Joe was there, talking to someone, gesturing and talking around a joint in his mouth. As Patrick approached, his conversation got a little more clear.

"--did fine, don't know what the hell you're bitching about. We just finished a show and you can't even calm down for five fucking minutes, you're already on about this lead you think you have and--"

"Shut up, shut up," a second voice hissed. It was Pete. There were other people around the door, too, hopeful fans who wanted to chat with the band. Patrick felt self-conscious, suddenly - Joe had invited him, but he wasn't any different than those people. Awkward.

"Hey, Joe," Patrick said, almost too quiet to be heard - he was trying to call out, but he was bad at initiating conversation at the best of times. Still, he wanted the guy to know he'd shown. Joe perked up, having heard, and turned towards the voice, his expression brightening when he saw Patrick.

"Hey! The Genre Kid! Nice to see you!" He slapped Patrick's shoulder, lifting a hand to pull the joint from his mouth. He exhaled a line of thick smoke, and Patrick prickled at the smell. It wasn't his favorite, but whatever Joe was smoking wasn't as bad as some of the weed he'd smelled in the past, that was for sure. Still, his mom was definitely going to notice the smell on his jacket when he got home. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

Pete lingered behind Joe, staring at Patrick. Patrick smiled, trying to engage with Joe, but he was too busy watching Pete's expressions warp and change. Surprise, confusion, worry, concern... some of the expressions were hard to read, and they were moving fast. When Joe made it clear he knew Patrick, Pete's face finally settled back on surprise, and he looked from Joe to Patrick and back again.

"You guys know each other?" he asked. Joe nodded, clapping Patrick on the shoulder again.

"Yeah, man," Joe said. "This guy is a musical genius, seriously. He plays drums, right?"

"Yeah," Patrick said, shoving his hands into his jean pockets. "Joe said-- uh--"

"We already met," Pete said, firmly, and Patrick felt suddenly embarrassed he hadn't said so first. "Last week."

"What-- really?" It was Joe's turn to look surprised, then he grinned, laughing. "It's like fate then, man! Don't worry about that other guy, we can get Patrick to play drums, maybe."

"Sure," Patrick said. Joe had mentioned his musical project in passing, had told Patrick it was sort of a side gig and they still needed more people. He'd called it "softcore punk".

"Maybe," Pete said. He looked clearly uncomfortable, but at the same time, Patrick got the sense that Pete was staring him down, in a way that felt... almost aggressive.

"Uh--" Patrick hesitated, unsure what to say. He felt like there was an enormous amount of tension in the air, but Joe didn't seem to notice. He laughed, putting his joint back to his lips. "Well, you guys were awesome," Patrick finished, feeling lame for saying it.

"Thanks," Pete said. "No offense, but this doesn't really seem like your scene." His tone was flat, and he looked away as he said it, like he was disregarding Patrick entirely. Patrick felt his face flush, first in embarrassment, then in annoyance. Was Pete's reaction to being caught off guard just to be a complete asshole, or what? Was this just how he was, and the Pete he'd spent a day with the week before was unusually friendly?

"You'd be surprised," Patrick said. "Anyway, I came to see Joe."

"Yeah!" Joe grinned, punching Pete's shoulder lightly. "Lay off, Pete, he's a cool kid."

Pete turned away, going to start grabbing more gear, loading it into a large van. Several of the other kids waiting around the door started talking to him, and Pete managed to put on a smile for them, chatting a little. In his head, though, he was panicking.

He didn't mean to be an ass to Patrick. He was a good kid and he didn't deserve Pete's shit - did anyone? He was aware that he had a lot of character flaws - a lot of them, even apart from the inherent flaws in what he was. He self-sabotaged, he panicked when things didn't go as planned or surprised him, he was an asshole when he was anxious, he liked to push people away. The only reason Joe was still in his life was because he refused to leave because of what Pete was, and who knew why Andy still put up with him. Pity? God. His other bandmates were dangerously close to losing their patience with him, and he'd successfully pushed away people like his last girlfriend (for the best, for her own safety) and a few other friends.

He felt so fucking alone sometimes, and he hated it. It was a paradox - he pushed everyone away because he didn't feel like he deserved friends, and he was terrified of hurting (worse, killing) someone. At the same time, he desperately needed interaction, attention, to feel like someone on the fucking planet cared about him. He was going to kill his friends, but he was going to die without them.

He'd spent the past week daydreaming of calling Patrick and seeing him again - starting an actual friendship with someone. His thumb had brushed over the "call" button countless times; he had at least three different half-penned text messages in his drafts to the kid, each attempting to sound more aloof and casual than the last. Ultimately, had hadn't sent any of them, because half the time his thoughts were "maybe I can actually have one fucking friend" and that was fine - but the other half were vivid images of gorging himself on Patrick's blood, and those thoughts were enough to make him want to find another rooftop to throw himself off of, and to hell with their one year promise.

With thoughts like that, Pete couldn't be sure on what pretense he even really wanted to see Patrick. But beyond that, he couldn't control himself, and that wasn't even anything new. He didn't remember much of his life before waking up like this, no, but there was a lot he'd been able to piece together. Andy didn't know much, and he hadn't met Joe until after, so they weren't much in terms of information, but he'd found stacks and stacks of notebooks in his apartment filled with things that helped fill in some gaps. Text message history helped, too, and scouring his laptop and email accounts. All of it painted the picture of a guy who was just as fucked in the head as Pete felt now, so at least becoming a vampire hadn't dramatically altered his life. At least he'd been out of control, indecisive, self-hating, and bad at virtually everything before.

And the worst part of it all was that Pete knew he was in a downswing. That was his life - downswings and upbeats, in a constant procession. He was depressive now, the signs were all there. When would this turn into mania, like it always did? There'd be no stopping himself from showing up at Patrick's door at three in the morning, or something equally terrible. 

No, that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was that Pete knew the mania was already knocking on his doorstep. Joe had noticed it too - he'd been yelling at Pete just a minute ago to slow down and chill out.

Pete let out a long breath and turned away from the van, the side door still open. He watched Patrick and Joe for a moment. God, he did not want to fuck this up. He fucked everything else up. He walked past the groupies and stopped next to Joe, and they stopped short with whatever they were talking about, Patrick regarding him with measured curiosity.

"We should talk," Pete said.

"About the band?" Joe asked, cocking an eyebrow. "Right now? Take it easy for a goddamn minute, I thought you had something else you wanted to--"

"No," Pete said, short, cutting Joe off. "Just-- get in the car. You too, Patrick."

He glanced towards Patrick, his expression uncertain. Patrick got the feeling Pete wanted Patrick to get in, but didn't want to show it.

Well... what else was he doing? With only a moment's hesitation, Patrick nodded, climbing past the equipment and into the back of the van.

Joe took the driver's seat, which surprised Patrick a little bit. Joe noticed Patrick's confusion and laughed.

"Pete had his license revoked," he said. "Now I taxi his ass everywhere."

Patrick tried not to have an anxiety attack over the fact that Joe had, moments ago, been smoking pot. Maybe it wasn't enough to be a big deal? Joe started the car, beginning to pull out of the alleyway and onto a main street. Traffic was light for downtown Chicago.

"So, where are we headed?" Joe asked. Pete didn't look at him, his lips pressed together, staring at some unfixed point beyond the passenger's side window.

"That place I told you about," Pete said, his voice flat. "By the tracks."

Joe didn't move for a moment, staring at Pete. "Are you serious?" he asked. "We have company, Pete."

"I know."

Patrick listened to this exchange with curiosity and mounting fear. Where were they talking about? Where were they going to take him? This didn't sound like it had to do with the band.

Pete suddenly climbed up to his knees, turning to look at Patrick in the backseat. Patrick only stared back at him with anxiety. His heart pounded in his throat and his stomach felt sick and heavy.

"You're probably wondering about that blood bag, aren't you?" Pete asked. He was talking so fast Patrick would have missed the sentence if it had been about anything else - but yes, yes, he _was_ wondering about the blood bag. Patrick nodded, sharply, too frozen to do much else. 

"Pete, Jesus christ," Joe said, making a sharp turn to get turned back around. The high was wearing off already. Pete tried to ignore him, instead focusing on Patrick's wide, glassy eyes.

He was probably scaring the shit out of the kid.

"You told me you could see ghosts," Pete said. "Were you serious about that?"

Patrick hesitated, feeling awkward. It wasn't something he went around telling people. In another situation, he'd laugh it off, saying no, of course not. But something in Pete's expression changed his mind.

"Yeah," he said, almost choking on it.

"Good," Pete said. He legitimately looked relieved, and he smiled, and Patrick felt his anxiety lighten just a little bit. That was a nice smile. "That makes us both a couple of fucking weirdos."

Patrick looked confused by this. Pete took the opportunity to charge ahead with the conversation before Patrick's confusion could sidetrack them.

"I didn't exactly believe you before," Pete said. "That was shitty. But trust me when I say I am about to unload a whole bunch of freaky shit on you, and I am one hundred percent fucking serious about all of it."

"You're going to do it in the most melodramatic way possible," Joe complained. Pete shushed him.

"Joe's driving us out to this place - nothing is dangerous there right now," Pete prefaced, suddenly, and Patrick's expression dropped back into anxiety and fear. "Uh-- if there is, we have Joe with us," he said. "Anyway-- it's a place where people were killed, and, I'm, I'm wondering if you can see if there's anyone there, anyone who can tell us anything about it."

Patrick balked for a moment, then looked angry. He crossed arms over his chest, pushing himself against the back of his seat. He looked a little bit like an angry toddler. Pete didn't find much amusement in it, though.

"Okay, I get it," Patrick said. His tone was so full of malice that it surprised Pete - he hadn't expected this. "You're a couple of wannabe ghost hunters and you're trying to use me to get on, on fucking TV or something. Look, it's great that you believe me, but I'm not interested in selling these people out for fifteen minutes of fame, okay? So just-- drop me off at the station and I'll take a bus home."

"God, you two are already insufferable," Joe complained. "Totally killing my high. Look, the place we're going is an old vampire nest. It's abandoned now, my dad confirmed it last year. Pete and I are hunting the vampires who used to live there, and frankly, we're losing the trail on our own. We need help. Apparently, Pete decided you could help. All on his own, without asking anyone else involved on their opinion on that," Joe added, side-eyeing Pete. Pete did not look him in the eye, turning to stare out the window again instead.

"Yeah, it's like that," Pete said. "This particular gang is hurting people, and we're trying to stop them. No cameras, no bullshit. This is about getting to the bottom of this."

"You guys are going to get yourselves killed," Patrick said. It was about fifth place on his list of things to say - first place was more like, _"Vampires? You expect me to believe that?"_ , but Pete had said he was going to drop "freaky shit" on Patrick, but had sworn he was serious, with a shaking intensity in his voice that Patrick wanted to believe. He had dropped his own freaky shit on Pete, and he'd wanted Pete to believe that. He should at least try to return the favor.

Pete laughed. "They already killed me."

Patrick stared at Pete for a moment, the pieces trying to click into place. Pete didn't look dead. Patrick knew the look, and Pete didn't have it. But... vampires. Hurting people. The blood bag. Pete's refusal to step into the sun. 

Vampires were actually real, and Pete Wentz was one of them. Patrick was trying to take this in. How had he not known about vampires before? No spirit had ever felt the need to mention them.

Then again, Patrick generally went out of his way to make sure ghosts didn't realize he could see them. He'd done that for years and years now. He wasn't exactly getting news from ghosts.

Doing it now was going to be one hell of an experience.

"What about Joe?" he asked, weakly, because if Patrick was going to process this, he wanted to take it all in at once. "Is he...?"

"Nope," Joe said, quickly, sounding like he wanted to defend himself. "Fuck no. And generally, I don't like 'em. Pete is kind of an exception."

"Thanks, asshole," Pete said, but he seemed a little relaxed by Joe's answer, smiling a little.

"My family hunts down vampires," Joe said. "Have for generations. That's why I said my dad had checked on this place last year."

That made sense. Patrick felt a little more relaxed himself. The implication was that Joe, at least, had some idea of what he was doing, even if he wasn't any older than Patrick was (at least, it didn't look like it). And he did want to help people, of course - Patrick wasn't heartless. If he could talk to some ghosts about how they'd died and help keep that from happening to other people, that would be great. Not something he wanted to do for the rest of his life, maybe, but still something good to do for once. It's not like you get opportunities to help people dropped on your door every day.

"Okay," Patrick said, exhaling. "Let's do it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been so long, but I still love this story and I still have every intention of finishing it. There is a whole hell of a lot still coming, so thank you for sticking around if you have, and welcome if you're new! Sorry about the chapter length, but this was a good place to break it. Next time: ghost hunting, band practice, and Brendon Urie. (Maybe not in that order.)


	4. Chapter 4

There was a breeze coming off Lake Michigan, chilling the neighborhood. It was unusually cold for an April evening. The rest of the houses on the block almost definitely had their furnaces working, but Brendon didn't even notice the cold any more. It had been a long time since he'd needed a heater. The furnace in this house, he thought, was probably woefully under-maintained. 

The other houses in the neighborhood bother Brendon, more than he'd care to admit. It seemed like Beckett got a kick out of buying places in populated areas, as if he wanted to flaunt who and what he was. Maybe he was flirting with humanity. If he was, Brendon knew it was far from chaste. Chicago was densely populated, and Hyde Park wasn't exactly a quiet, ignored part of the city. Just like his fucking penthouses in Manhattan and Las Vegas, he might as well have been hanging neon signs telling people "Vampires Live Here!". But neon lighting wasn't Beckett's style. It would need to be something just as outlandish, but not as garish. Brendon scoffed at the thought.

He was there to pick something up, that's all. Beckett had sent him from New York on an errand. They hadn't been in Chicago in over a year, but whatever it was, Beckett seemed keen on wanting it now. Brendon had no delusions that whatever he was doing was actually important or consequential - but Beckett liked to send Brendon on trips like this, to remind Brendon that when Beckett said jump, Brendon's next line was always, "how high?".

To say that Brendon resented him would be an understatement. But he also knew he couldn't leave. Which left him searching the untouched rooms of Beckett's posh Chicago home, in search of, of all things, a fucking book.

He'd just been going up the stairs to check Beckett's room when he heard rattling at the back door. Brendon hesitated, listening. It was quiet - normal ears might not have picked up the sound. There was a clink of metal on metal, the sound of the pins of a lock shifting. Brendon exhaled as the door opened, hearing a whisper of _"holy shit"_ from whoever had managed to just pick the back door lock.

The back door was off the kitchen, what Beckett called the "servants' entrance". Brendon couldn't blame robbers for choosing this house. It probably looked like the unused summer vacation home for a rich family - the only house in the neighborhood that hadn't had any activity coming in or out for over a year now, just sitting dark and quiet. It was a natural target. Unfortunately for them, Brendon already knew what the procedure was for anyone who got in his way.

He was getting hungry, anyway.

He stood on the landing, waiting, listening.

"You're sure there's no one here," someone said, sounding more like a reassurance to himself than a question.

"That's what our intel says," said another voice, smooth and unconcerned. It wasn't the anxious voice of someone new to breaking into places, that was for sure.

"Do you see anyone?" a third voice asked. "Or feel it? Can you feel ghosts or just see them?"

Brendon's thoughts shifted a bit. Three voices, all young men. Talking about ghosts. Did they think this place was haunted? It wasn't even worn down.

The shuffle of six feet moved from the kitchen to a sitting room, and Brendon followed, lingering on the edge of a wide doorway leading from the sitting room to the front hall, where he'd been on the stairs only moments before.

"Not usually, unless there's really strong emotion left behind," the first voice said. "Uh-- and not everyone leaves behind a spirit, or that would be really rough to deal with. I don't really understand the details, though. Nobody has ever told me much about that kind of thing."

"Okay," the third voice said. "Well-- we should look all around, see if we find any clues. Joe and I can see if we find anything physical, you can see if you find anyone who can tell us anything."

"Sure." There's a hesitation, and, "What should I ask them? I mean, if I find anyone. What exactly do you want to know?"

There was an exhale of breath. "I mean-- shit, anything. Anything they can tell us about a guy named William Beckett. Even if they're not sure where he is or where he went or anything like that, I mean, if they can tell us anything at all, maybe we can find him."

Brendon's stomach turned. These weren't kids playing at being thieves, and they weren't amateur ghost hunters, either. They knew about Beckett. They were on his trail. And while Beckett hadn't been there in a while, they were close enough that they knew he owned this house. Brendon honestly wasn't sure if they could find a trail leading them to Manhattan from here.

It didn't matter, he reminded himself. Even if they did find Beckett, he'd rip them apart. Three human kids weren't any match for him, or for the people protecting him. Gabe especially would make sure they never even got the chance to look Beckett in the face.

Still... it might be interesting to see someone try. It was doomed to failure, sure, but...

"I can tell you about Beckett," Brendon said, stepping into the sitting room.

There were three, just like he'd figured. One short kid in a hat, staring stunned at Brendon; one guy with curly hair who moved to pull a revolver out from his jacket, fast; and one slightly older looking guy in a hoodie who jumped to his feet from where he'd been sitting on the arm of the couch.

Brendon put hands up, although the expression on his face made it seem like more of a mocking gesture than anything sincere. 

"This, uh, this guy is not a ghost," Patrick said, his voice shaking.

"No shit," Joe replied, clicking back the hammer of his gun. "We can all see that."

"He's one of them," Pete said, because Brendon's skin was too perfect, his eyes seemed too bright, there was just _something_ about him. He was a vampire, Pete could tell - and he was a well-fed one. Not like Pete, who was squeaking by, starving himself. Brendon was actually living up to his full potential.

It put Pete on edge.

"Come on," Brendon said, raising an eyebrow towards Joe. "Are you really going to shoot me? I'd recommend not making a mess here."

"Wasn't planning on it," Joe said, cautious. "But I need a little protection. How can my friends and I be sure you aren't about to attack us?"

"That gun isn't going to help you much," Brendon said. It wasn't the right thing to say, and he knew it. He wasn't defusing the situation at all. Still, it annoyed him to have weapons pointed at him. He wanted to have a mostly-friendly conversation with these guys, not deal with this.

"The bullets have silver plating and they've been engraved with spell runes," Joe said, sounding like he was a bored retail worker discussing the features of a new product. "I know they won't take you down, but you won't fucking like it, either."

Brendon thought about this for a moment. He'd never heard of anything quite like that, but it certainly sounded like it could sting. They'd done some homework. "Alright," he relented. "You have me right where you want me, then."

Pete scoffed. "We should leave," he said. "This is a trap."

Patrick seemed to jump at that. "Really?" he asked.

"I'm alone," Brendon told them. "But you can believe whatever you want. Obviously you have no reason to trust me." He glanced over Pete, finally realizing that they weren't, in fact, all humans.

Interesting. Maybe that was why they knew a thing or two. Other vampires had gone after Beckett before - usually attempting to start some kind of gang war or something like that. Beckett had always shut that down, fast. But Brendon didn't think this was like that.

The last time he'd seen two humans working together with a vampire, Beckett had made that end in tragedy. Brendon felt his chest constrict at the memory. These days, when he even got the rare chance to see Spencer, the man wouldn't meet his gaze.

These kids had no idea what they were getting into, after all. Brendon hesitated, now somehow less certain of interacting with them.

Too late now. Maybe a topic change was in order.

"You look like shit," Brendon said, looking over Pete. "When was the last time you ate?"

Pete stared back at him, his expression twisting. "Week and a half," Pete said finally, guessing. It was the day he met Patrick... that had been last Wednesday, right? Thursday? He wasn't even sure any more. It had been only half a liter, cold, and it hadn't even been real blood - it was that bullshit transfusion stuff, the red blood cells mixed with other things.

It had been disgusting, and Pete had been starving since then. Brendon winced, shaking his head.

"Unbelievable. Why?"

"We're really only here to talk about Beckett," Joe said, a little loudly, as if trying to draw Brendon's attention away from Pete. Pete pressed his lips together, looking away from the others, but especially away from Patrick.

God, he wouldn't mind eating right now. If Pete attacked Patrick right now, Joe would be too caught off-guard to stop him. Maybe this new guy would take advantage of the situation, go after Joe, before the gun could go off. God, Patrick's blood would be so fucking good.

Pete let out a shaking breath. They were here in this place trying to find Beckett as payback for making Pete feel this way. The last thing he needed to do now is get distracted becoming exactly the monster Beckett turned him into.

"God, that's sad," Brendon said, his voice low, as if he could read every one of Pete's thoughts. Pete's gaze shot back up towards him, feeling cold edges of anger fold over on him. "There's no way you can take on Beckett if you aren't eating. I can promise you, he is. Regularly."

Joe seemed interested Brendon wanted to talk about Beckett, and pounced on the opportunity.

"Where is he now?" Joe asked. He couldn't stop himself from looking around the room, as if he still thought it was possible Beckett could appear at any moment. Brendon smiled, but it wasn’t a smile with any actual joy in it. Patrick felt wary looking at it.

“I can’t tell you that,” Brendon said. “Literally.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Joe asked. Brendon sighed, undoing the buttons on his sleeve, yanking it up past his forearm.

Pete took in Brendon’s clothing for the first time, really looking at the guy. Where Pete was wearing tight jeans and a gray and purple hoodie, Brendon looked like he might have just come from some kind of charity dinner or awards ceremony. He was dressed nicely, but somehow, it didn’t seem like his fashion quite belonged. There was something out of place. Out of time. Pete knew about as much as the average twenty-something about formal men’s fashion, or maybe less, and while to some extent it hadn’t changed much in a long time, there was still something about Brendon’s pressed shirt and vest that seemed… off in 2002.

How old was Brendon, exactly? Pete didn’t remember much, but he knew he’d only turned about a year ago. He didn’t know any other vampires - he only barely remembered Beckett’s face, even - but he knew they lived a long, long time. How long had this guy been alive?

When Brendon finished pulling his sleeve up, it revealed a strange tattoo of complex lines and symbols on the inside of his upper forearm. Joe leaned forward to study it, the barrel of his revolver lowering a bit as a result. Brendon eyed it, realizing he had a chance now, but he didn’t take it. He didn’t really want to.

“It’s a sigil of some sort,” Joe said, finally. “What does it do?”

“Makes it so I can’t tattle,” Brendon said. His tone was light, almost sing-song, but he didn’t sound particularly happy about it. “Seriously. Any time I try to say anything revealing about him, my mouth will close up. It’s pointless.” He hesitated, thinking. “Of course, it doesn’t stop me from talking about myself. Which is one of my favorite things to do.” He grinned. “You guys should sit down, though. I feel like a terrible host.” He pulled his sleeve back down, buttoning it into place. Patrick was a little impressed how easily he could button his cuff on his own - he always needed help. “Do you want some tea?”

For slightly different reasons, all three of the guys were surprised by that question. Joe just stared, looking like the last thing he was ever going to do was drink anything a vampire gave him; Pete looked like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry; and Patrick looked startled, but then smiled.

“Sure,” he said. Joe turned to look at him like he was crazy.

“Are you kidding me?” he asked. “You’re going to drink something he’s giving you?”

Patrick looked sheepish. “I mean-- I’m sure it’s fine,” he said. “It’s nice to accept if someone offers, so…”

Brendon laughed. “This guy’s got the right idea. What’s your name, pretty?”

Patrick flushed. “Uh, um--”

“We don’t need to tell you our names,” Pete said.

“I’m just trying to build a little trust here,” Brendon said. “You guys are the ones who broke into my house and pointed a gun at me. So what’s stopping me from calling the cops? You think tracking Beckett is hard now, give it a try from jail.”

Joe frowned. The guy had a point. He slowly lowered his gun the rest of the way, tucking it back into his jacket. “What’s your goal, exactly?” he asked.

Brendon smiled. “Why don’t we start with introductions first, unless Toothy over there really wants to be a brat.” Pete frowned, but didn’t say anything. Without any interruption, Brendon continued. “I’m Brendon Urie. And I lied to you. This isn’t exactly my house. You might already know that. I have stayed here, though. It belongs to the group I’m part of. Your turn.” He looked at Joe expectantly. Joe scowled.

“Joe,” he said. He seemed to have no interest in saying anything else.

“Okay then,” Brendon said. His gaze moved to Patrick, who felt incredibly uncomfortable, both with Brendon’s attention, and with the situation he’d just managed to get himself into.

He’d only just accepted vampires were even real just less than an hour ago. Now he was in a room with two of them, discussing a third. Patrick wasn’t even entirely sure what was going on. Apparently there was someone named William Beckett who was behind this. He was definitely going to sit Pete down and give him a piece of his mind later, make Pete spill the entire story. He didn’t even feel like he should be there.

“Um, I’m Patrick,” he said. “Patrick Stumph. I-- this is a lot to take in,” he said, and then felt immediately stupid for having said it. “Sorry, I just. Never mind.”

Brendon smiled again, crossing arms over his chest. Patrick had slid down onto the loveseat at one point, and Brendon watched him from his place leaning against the doorframe. Pete had eased back down onto the arm of the accompanying chair at some point, too, but Joe remained rigidly standing, looking like he was ready to draw his gun again at any moment.

“I’m Pete,” the last one said. Brendon committed their names to memory. Joe, Patrick Stumph, Pete. Good to know.

“How long have you been a vampire, Pete?” Brendon asked. Pete glared in return.

“Weren’t you going to get Patrick some tea?” Pete asked, sounding very much like he had no intention of answering any personal questions. Brendon smiled again, all smiles, and nodded.

“Sure,” he said, then turned to look at Patrick. “What do you like? We have a lot of different stuff.”

“Uh,” Patrick said. “I mean… green?”

Brendon perked up. “Sure.” He stepped out of the room, and from the kitchen, there were the sounds of a kettle being filled from the sink and set on the stove.

“Why the fuck do they have tea,” Joe grumbled. “Maybe we should just get the hell out of here now while he’s occupied.”

“He might tell us something,” Pete said. “We have literally no other leads.”

“Maybe we could let Patrick decide,” Joe argued. “He didn’t agree to any of this, he’s in a lot more danger than the rest of us!”

“Patrick is ready to eat cake and offer up his neck to this guy!” Pete’s volume had gone up - Brendon didn’t need good hearing to catch that, even from the kitchen. He didn’t pay it too much mind. He’d gotten loose leaf green tea into a small mesh tea ball, put a little sugar in the cup (Patrick looked like a sweet one, after all), and gotten everything together just in time for the kettle to go off. He poured the water into the cup, and carried it, its saucer, and a small fancy teaspoon out to Patrick. He set it on the table with a flourish, then took a seat in a large black velvet armchair that was, when everyone was there, solely reserved for William Beckett.

It felt damn nice to sit in, that was for sure. Of course, the three kids in front of him had no idea he was sitting in Beckett’s chair… it was just personally satisfying to Brendon. There wasn’t anyone he hated more.

The mood in the room wasn’t too satisfying, though. Patrick looked somewhere between angry and upset and scared, and he stirred his tea for a little too long; Pete was pressing his lips together again like he was afraid his mouth would open and he’d say something else terrible and insensitive.

“As great as it sounds, I’m not going to drink Patrick’s blood,” Brendon said. “At least, not unless he’s willing.” He grinned a little. “So let’s change the subject before we kill the mood, since there’s enough dead things in the room already, huh?”

Joe almost laughed, but it came out as more of a scoff. Still - good one, even if he was a vampire.

“We came here looking for something that would help us find Beckett,” Pete said.

“Or someone,” Brendon said. “I heard you talking about ghosts. Someone here can talk to them?” Brendon looked towards Joe, assuming it was him - after all, Joe was the one who knew what a sigil was, and had mentioned runes - he seemed the most knowledgeable.

“Patrick can,” Joe said, and Brendon was surprised again. Patrick flushed, taking a sudden drink of his tea.

“I haven’t seen anyone here though,” he said. “I mean-- anyone dead. I, I mean. Any spirits.”

His anxiety was kinda cute. Brendon could relate - he’d been a young anxious mess once upon a time. “Hmmm. Well, lucky you ran into me then, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” Joe said, cautiously. Patrick took another drink of his tea.

“Unfortunately, you missed your chance to meet anyone exciting. Not counting today, I haven’t been back in Chicago in a while. About fourteen months,” Brendon said. He didn’t need to explain that talking about himself was the same as talking about Beckett - they seemed to get the idea. Brendon couldn’t talk about Beckett, not directly, but he could talk about himself plenty. That had to be good enough.

Fourteen months ago was exactly the same timeframe Pete woke up, dazed and confused and without a memory, only realize he had been turned into one of them. Brendon’s face didn’t seem familiar at all, though… And he didn’t seem to remember Pete. Maybe he wasn’t there when Beckett had decided to attack him.

But why turn someone, instead of killing them? Why the fuck didn’t Beckett just kill Pete? Going by what Pete had read in his notebooks, he would have loved to have been dead, even before.

“Where did you come from?” Patrick asked, a little timid. That was a good question, better than the ones with expletives that were going through Pete’s mind.

“Oh, are you taking a personal interest in me?” Brendon asked, reclining a little in his seat. Pete got the idea he was putting on a show for them, and it annoyed him. “Well, let’s see-- I consider myself from Las Vegas, but it’s been a while since I was there.” Of course, Brendon knew what Patrick was asking - but why not have a little fun? It had been a while since he’d really gotten to socialize outside of Beckett’s gang, and the three of them were adorable. It was going to be a shame to watch Beckett destroy them, really, but he didn’t bother getting attached anymore.

“No--” Patrick sighed. “I mean, before today, where did you come to Chicago from?”

Brendon wanted to pout, but even he felt like that was a little over the top. “I took an Amtrak,” he said. “Travel by train! Twenty two and a half hours from here to, oh, Philadelphia, for instance.”

Was it really that far? Patrick didn’t leave Chicago much, but he thought it was a little closer. He wondered how long it would take by car. Probably forever in that shitty van.

“Philadelphia,” Pete said. “That’s where Beckett is?”

Brendon shrugged. “Who can say? Not me, that’s for sure. But really, I’d go maybe another hour and a half. Spend a whole twenty four on the train from here to-- somewhere.” He smiled. “Somewhere east.”

Joe let out a frustrated sound. “How is that supposed to be helpful?” he asked. Brendon shrugged.

“Anyway,” he said. “Once I get what I came here for, that’s what I’ll be doing. Heading east for twenty-four hours.” He looked at Pete. “You could come with me, but you wouldn’t come back.”

“I’ll get there on my own,” Pete said. Brendon nodded.

“Suit yourself. That’s probably the right choice anyway.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a ring of keys, and began to fidget with it. “Who picked the lock?”

“I did,” Joe said. Brendon freed a key from the ring, then held it out to him. Joe hesitated for a moment before grabbing it.

“Pretty impressive trick,” Brendon said. “I don’t know that one. But here - you don’t want to be picking a lock out east. As far as how you find the door this goes to - well, you’ll figure it out. Or you won’t.”

He stood, then, and Joe pocketed the key. Pete got the feeling they were being asked to leave.

“I’d play host all night long if I could,” Brendon said, sounding apologetic. “But Joe and Patrick look like the kinds of kids who have curfews.”

 

 

They’d dropped Patrick off, who looked very relieved to be going home, and Joe drove Pete to his apartment. They hadn’t talked much in the car - frankly, Pete was still processing everything that had just happened to them - but it seemed now, as Joe idled outside Pete’s apartment, like he had something he wanted to say.

“Are you still serious about this?” Joe asked, finally. “I mean - normally I’d take info like this and pass it on to people in the same line of work who lived out there. Following a lead that far is different.”

“I’ll follow him to another country if I have to,” Pete said. “Another continent. Fuck, I’d hit all the fucking continents.”

Joe frowned. “Well, if that’s the case, let’s record a fucking record,” he said. Pete stared at him for a second, not really following the logic. Joe almost rolled his eyes.

“We need money to travel, Pete,” he said. “But you know what’s even better than having money to take a fucking, twenty four hour train ride or whatever? Getting paid to travel by going on tour. We could put out a record and do a small east coast tour. We’d be making music and taking care of this shit at the same time. And we wouldn’t have to rob a fucking bank to do it.”

Pete considered this for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Joe had a point. It was hard to think about focusing on music now that he knew where Beckett was, though.

“Yeah,” he said, absently. “Well… I’ll talk to Patrick about it.”

“Call me soon,” Joe said, and Pete knew if he didn’t, Joe would call him instead. Behind them, a car laid on its horn, annoyed that Joe was lingering in a space that wasn’t even a drop off zone, much less a parking space. Pete grabbed his bag, got out, and closed the door.

He was composing texts to Patrick again in his head as the climbed the stairs, but when Pete got into his apartment, swung his backpack across the room, and threw himself down on the couch, he opened his phone to find that Patrick had already texted him.

 _this shit is officially crazy,_ the text read. _but I made a promise to make sure ur there to meet me on the roof in a year. So im in._

Pete read it a few times, grinning a bit. He didn’t think the promise they made actually said anything about Patrick having to keep Pete alive. That was more on Pete, Patrick was just a part of the equation to hold him accountable to the whole thing. But… it wasn’t a bad deal, either.

Joe was in Pete’s life to make sure he didn’t hurt anyone, because of what Pete was (the music was a nice perk, though). In a way, that was keeping Pete accountable too… but Patrick was there to make sure Pete didn’t hurt himself, and the realization of that and what it meant was oddly comforting.

Pete had spent a lot of time in that apartment, alone and desperate, angry, with no real outlet outside of Arma Angelus. But now, reading over Patrick’s text, Pete didn’t feel alone at all.

He thought over what Joe said again, putting the puzzle pieces of it all down in his own head. A record. A tour. It was a good idea. But what they needed first was a band.

Pete hit reply, his fingers fast on the keys:

 _what r u doing 2morrow?_ he typed. _joe can pick u up at 8, lets make some fuckin music._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to leave comments! It really helps me keep motivated to write more and I thrive on feedback. New chapter soon! Patrick is going to show off his temper and Andy is coming back!


End file.
